


Just Fairy Tales

by damnedscribblingwoman



Category: 17th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Betting Involving Sexual Favours, Declarations Of Love, F/M, House of Ill Repute, Jealousy, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Secret Identity, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-09-21 10:44:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17042249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnedscribblingwoman/pseuds/damnedscribblingwoman
Summary: It was a mad, reckless, shocking idea, and all the more so for being Liselotte's and not the Chevalier's. The blame for it, like for so many other things, could be laid squarely at Madame de Maintenon's feet.





	1. The Scheme

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SkadiofWinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkadiofWinter/gifts).



> A very big thank you to kalypsobean for beta reading this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

_"I believe that the histories that will be written about this court after we are gone will be better and more entertaining than any novel, and I am afraid that those who come after us will not be able to believe them and think they are just fairy tales."_

_\- Elizabeth Charlotte, Princess Palatine_

* * *

It was a mad, reckless, shocking idea, and all the more so for being Liselotte's and not the Chevalier's. The blame for it, like for so many other things, could be laid squarely at Madame de Maintenon's feet.

"Were you not supposed to be traipsing around the countryside, chasing after some boar or another with the rest of the hunt?" the Chevalier asked, his fingers going still on Philippe's hair. Philippe, who'd been happily drowsing with his head on the Chevalier's lap, opened his eyes to see his wife marching across the room. 

Liselotte threw her hat on the bed and sank into an armchair, dismissing her trailing flock of ladies with a wave of her hand.

"I was," she said, "but Madame de Maintenon feels that my time might be better spent in prayer for the King's continued glory and for the return of French Protestants to the one true faith. I am sent to change into more appropriate attire and to join her in the royal chapel."

As she made no move to get up and was still in her riding clothes, it seemed rather unlikely that she would be joining Madame de Maintenon anywhere at all anytime soon. 

"She's very free with her commands, the Marquise," the Chevalier said, and though Philippe privately agreed, he felt duty-bound to point out, "Marquise or not, she's the King's wife."

Liselotte snorted. "Our dear sister."

" _Your_ dear sister," the Chevalier said. "I claim no relation, I'm happy to say."

The Chevalier did not seem inclined to resume his attentions, and the conversation was veering dangerously close to treasonous — or what passed for treasonous around Versailles these days — so Philippe sat up on the settee and gave Liselotte a pointed look. 

"You were the one who went to great lengths to remind me of the importance of family. She is who she is, and there's no profit in picking a fight she _will_ win."

"It's all very well for you to say so, Philippe; you're not the one who has to dance attendance on her. The Queen was a devout woman, and even she would've raised an eyebrow at mass three times a day. Surely there is such a thing as too much piety." 

"I've always thought so," the Chevalier said, and Philippe rolled his eyes.

"You would." To Liselotte, he added, "A little prayer is good for the soul."

"A little prayer might be, but this much of it risks turning me positively wicked."

"Ah! If only that were true." The Chevalier got up and moved towards the bed, squeezing Liselotte's shoulder in passing. Philippe tried hard not to mind it, nor the affectionate familiarity with which he asked, "What do you call this monstrosity?" on picking up her discarded hat.

"Oh, give it here. It's perfectly fashionable."

"I shudder to think of the provincial circle of hell where _this_ is considered perfectly fashionable."

He handed her the hat and she hit him playfully with it, and Philippe couldn't help but think of all the times the Chevalier had thrown a jealous fit over something just as absurdly innocuous. The irony was not lost on him. It was perhaps a very silly thing for a man to resent the fact that his wife and his lover got on like a house on fire, but much as Philippe loved them both, he found that he loved sharing them with one another somewhat less.

That was possibly not so strange a thing. Philippe had been born a king's son; he had never once had to share anything with anyone, save perhaps with Louis, and Louis did not so much share as take whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, whatever Philippe might have to say to the contrary. (What little Philippe knew about sharing, his brother certainly knew less — had known less even before he wore a crown.) 

Still, Philippe was trying.

"What is needed here," he said, getting up and abducting the much-maligned chapeau, "is a little dash of colour." Seizing a large, red plume from a pile of equally large, colourful feathers left on top of the desk, he moved to stand before the full-length mirror and balanced the hat on his head, holding the feather to it. "See? It's much improved already."

"That, my dear, is entirely due to the wearer." The Chevalier pressed against him from behind, wrapping an arm around his waist and kissing his cheek. "No, I'm afraid there's no saving this atrocity with a mere feather."

"More feathers, perhaps?"

"A silk ribbon. Maybe. And some lace."

"And pearls?" 

"Oh, yes, pearls, most definitely."

The discussion on how best to reform Liselotte's poor hat might have continued indefinitely — both despite and because of her spirited defence of the item in question — but they were interrupted by the arrival of Marguerite de Brézé, a distant relation of Madame de Montespan that Liselotte had taken into her household at Philippe's request.

"Madame," she said, curtsying prettily, "Madame de Maintenon is asking for you."

Liselotte sighed. "Of course she is. Lay out something for me to change into, Marguerite. I'll be but a moment."

"Yes, Madame."

"I'll tell you what," Philippe said, helping Liselotte to her feet. "We'll go to Saint-Cloud for a few days. I have matters to attend to and you can enjoy some time away from Madame de Maintenon's religious fervour."

"I doubt there's anywhere in the whole of France that's remote enough to get one away from Madame de Maintenon's religious fervour," the Chevalier said. There was just enough levity in his tone to pass it off as a joke, and just enough bitterness in it for Philippe to know it wasn't. Fair or not, the Chevalier wasn't alone in seeing Maintenon's influence in the King's increasing hostility towards French Protestants.

"No, indeed," Liselotte agreed, squeezing the Chevalier's arm sympathetically. "But Saint-Cloud sounds lovely. Now, I better go before she has me excommunicated."

Liselotte was almost at the door when she stopped, pausing for a moment before turning to look at them. "Philippe, let's not go to Saint-Cloud. Let's go to the Palais-Royal instead."

"The Palais-Royal? Whatever for?" 

Henriette had favoured their Parisian home, but Liselotte, like Philippe himself, was partial to the Château de Saint-Cloud, with its bright and airy rooms, colourful gardens, and vast park. 

Liselotte's smile grew a little wider. "I might have some ideas as to how we might entertain ourselves."

"Now, there's an ominous statement," the Chevalier said dryly, but Liselotte was gone. 

* * *

Elizabeth Charlotte, Princess Palatine, Duchesse d'Orléans, was a practical woman. Raised in the Protestant faith, she had converted to Catholicism in order to marry the brother of the King of France. Had her father sought an alliance with the Ottoman Empire and married her off to a brother of the Sultan instead, she expected she would've converted to his faith with just as little fuss, never mind the specifics. Liselotte was a pragmatist. Women of her class ought to be.

But if Liselotte lacked Madame de Maintenon's religious zeal, she did not lack for the moral rectitude that ought to accompany religious practice. She was modest, loyal, dutiful and frank to a fault, and made no secret of the fact that she took a dim view of Philippe and the Chevalier's wildest exploits. That, no doubt, went a great way to explain their stunned silence on hearing what she had in mind for their Parisian sojourn. 

"But—" the Chevalier started after a moment, but was immediately interrupted by Philippe.

"How on earth have you even heard of such a place?"

Liselotte smiled, tucking her feet under her on the armchair — an appalling way to sit that would've earned her a lecture from her governess, once upon a time, and that was normally rendered nigh on impossible by her petticoats. She was dressed for bed, however, and Frau von Harling would've been far more shocked by her being in such a state of undress in the company of a gentleman other than her husband than by the comparatively smaller peccadillo of sitting in such an unladylike manner. 

"I hear a great many things, Philippe." She reached for a rook, hesitating at the last second. "I can't possibly be expected to account for the sources of all of them." Abandoning her previous strategy, she moved her bishop instead. "Check."

The Chevalier rose from the bed, where he'd been lounging like a large, lazy cat. "A fine moment to play coy," he said, coming to stand by Philippe's chair. "You know, when you want to spite someone, it's usually more satisfying if they hear about it."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"You know perfectly well what I mean. And more to the point, if you wish to scandalise La Maintenon, all you need to do is ask, and your darling husband and I will throw one of our famed soirées — of which you usually so disapprove, might I add — and you can join in our moral corruption to your heart's content. She'll never object to an innocent little hunt again."

"You're wrong if you think this has anything to do with that woman."

"Yes," Philippe said, moving a knight to protect his king. "I'm sure the timing of it is entirely coincidental."

Perhaps not, but that was neither here nor there.

"Oh, come," she said. "It would be fun. And really, Lorraine, if you think there's anyone left at court, up to and including Madame de Maintenon, who is still scandalised by your 'famed soirées', I fear you're much mistaken."

He gasped theatrically, holding a hand to his chest. "Madame, you wound me."

Ignoring him, Liselotte turned to Philippe, smiling enticingly. "Just think about it. Strong, rugged young men, a little rough around the edges. None of these court popinjays."

The Chevalier scoffed, turning away from them. "Peasants."

"Not peasants, I don't think. Artisans, tradesmen, merchants and the like."

"Moneyed peasants," was the sullen reply.

Philippe chuckled and shoved to his feet, closing the space between them and wrapping his arms around the Chevalier, pulling him back against him. "It does sound intriguing."

"Oh, you're on her side, are you? A very fine thing, for the Duc and Duchesse d'Orléans to get themselves killed roaming around the Cours des Miracles after dark."

"Nonsense. We'd go nowhere near the Cours des Miracles. And we'd be in disguise. Think of it as an opportunity to dress up."

"We wouldn't be dressing up. We'd be dressing down." He tilted his head back just enough to glare at Philippe, looking pouty and surly and not the least mollified by Philippe's amused expression. 

"Where's your sense of adventure?"

"I'm well known for not having one," he said, but when Philippe brushed his lips teasingly against his, the Chevalier followed the movement instinctively, finally turning in Philippe's arms and curling his fingers around the other man's neck to pull him in for a proper kiss.

Liselotte watched them with the amused fondness and benevolent goodwill of one who knew she'd just got her way. Not that she'd ever had any doubt she would. However much she resented her clipped wings, Philippe resented his more. His relationship with Louis was a complicated, tangled thing. He adored his brother and would never dream of opposing him in any serious way — Philippe would never be another Gaston; Queen Anne had made sure of that — but he still took a child's delight in pushing back against the constraints of his life in small, inconsequential ways. A dress here, a tantrum there, a dramatic retreat to Saint-Cloud until Louis begged him to come back. Getting Philippe to agree to something that, should Louis ever hear about it, would give him an apoplectic fit would never have taken much in the way of persuasion. 

And the Chevalier, well, the Chevalier lived for outrageous schemes, however much he might protest to the contrary. 

He was the first one to remember she was still there.

"And what do _you_ get out of it, pray?" 

An evening away from the lavish, beautiful, increasingly claustrophobic gilded cage that they never left — that _she_ never left. There was more than passing appeal in the opportunity to be someone else for a few hours.

"Oh, I'm sure I'll find much to entertain me. I'm given to understand this establishment enjoys the patronage of more than a few ladies of certain inclinations." Unfolding her legs from under her, Liselotte stood up and gave them both her most innocent smile. "I must retire. It's much too late. Goodnight, gentlemen."

Philippe and the Chevalier stared after her as she crossed the room. It was Philippe who finally said, astonishment clear in his voice, "Ladies are interested in such things?"


	2. Paris After Dark

The Chevalier de Lorraine tightened his fingers around the hilt of his dagger and scanned the surrounding street as if expecting the very shadows to take shape and lunge at them. Paris never slept. However cold it was outside, however late in the evening, there were always people out and about — sometimes out in the open, sometimes skulking in the shadows.

A short distance away, Philippe and Liselotte walked arm in arm, heads close together as they spoke in hushed, excited whispers, punctuated by the occasional giggle. Children, the both of them. They were all going to get themselves killed. Walking around Paris after dark without so much as a single musketeer for protection, as if that were a perfectly reasonable thing for the brother of the King of France to do, as if that were a reasonable thing for any sensible person to do. Of all the absurd, ridiculous, preposterous notions. 

Not that anyone would ever suspect them of being who they were, of course. Not when they were dressed like the very rabble likely to attack them just to rob them blind (there being no honour among thieves or the riffraff among whom they lived). Philippe de Lorraine-Armagnac, Chevalier de Lorraine, who'd cultivated a reputation as a fashion connoisseur and an arbiter of taste had been reduced to wearing a mismatched assortment of cheap linen and inferior wool. The cut of his dreadfully ill-fitting coat might generously be described as severe, his waistcoat was undeserving of the name, and his breeches were an affront to civilised society. He might as well have been dressed in rags. He wore no jewelry, no perfume, and the less said about his hair, the better. All things considered, a knife in the back might just be a mercy. 

Liselotte led them to a shabby, two-storey house in a dark, narrow alley, just off the Rue Saint-Denis, and how the sensible, sheltered, foreign wife of a Fils de France had even heard of such an establishment, let alone knew how to reach it, he could not begin to imagine. But then, Liselotte had proved very resourceful in the art of subterfuge and secret escapades. She'd procured the necessary items of clothing and bribed enough maids and palace guards to ensure they could get in and out of the Palais-Royal without anyone being any the wiser. The Princess Palatine was wasted as a duchess. She would have made a very effective spy. If only William of Orange had known. 

The man who came to the door was a corpulent fellow of undetermined age (it being so difficult to judge, with the lower orders), who gave them the once-over and asked in a gruff, unpolished voice, "Well, then?"

"We've just come from Naples," Liselotte said, which as code phrases went, was a little on the nose. 

The Chevalier had spent enough time in Italy to know that what in France they called the 'Italian vice', in Italy they simply called the 'French disease.' Both countries were nothing if not eager to ascribe the sin of sodomy to the other. Considering what went on in both Paris and Rome — and the Chevalier had partaken of the local cuisine in both — he truly did not see that either country had much of a leg to stand on when it came to moralising.

After paying the burly man at the door, they walked up a narrow staircase until they reached a parlour where a coarse, unconscionably rude young woman relieved them of their cloaks, overcoats and weapons. 

"Hand it over, pretty boy," she said, holding out a hand for the dagger at his waist. "The only blade you're allowed to wield in there is the one between your legs."

He was still mulling over the scathing retort such an impertinent remark deserved when they were shown into the main room. This proved to be a large, handsome apartment of more generous proportions than the Chevalier would have thought possible, filled with persons of far more respectable an appearance than he would have thought likely. As he had expected little better than dressed-up alley rats and unwashed rustics, his somewhat increased opinion did not necessarily overly flatter anyone present. Still, he couldn't help but wish — not for the first time in the evening — that he were more smartly dressed. He risked being outdone by the rabble, and that simply would not do.

He did have to admit, however, that for a den of vice and immorality, the place certainly looked very respectable. The Chevalier had seen more flesh on display in nunneries, to say nothing of the salons in Versailles. The men — and it was mostly men — in attendance were, on average, older and far less pretty than the social butterflies that graced his and Philippe's merry gatherings, but they were hardly the brutes he might have expected to encounter this close to the slums of Paris, and they were mostly engaged in the sort of perfectly innocuous activities one might expect to witness at any tavern or salon up and down the country: drinking, gambling, making idle conversation. 

The sheer banality of it might lead one to overlook the small details that could easily damn anyone present to the fiery pits of hell, or at the very least to an uncomfortably close proximity to the hangman's noose: men standing just a bit too close, a hand on someone's knee, a chaste kiss on the lips. 

And then there were the more glaring signs that this was, at the very least, a gathering of eccentrics.

There weren't many women present, but of those, several wore men's attire — breeches and fitted waistcoats that seemed far more immodest than the deep décolletages that were the fashion at court. The amount of ankles on display was perfectly scandalous. The Chevalier barely noticed, though, and wouldn't have noticed even had his inclination leaned more towards that quarter than it did. His attention was firmly engaged elsewhere. A petite, blond woman with strong features was wearing an embroidered coat of so striking a colour and so suitable a cut that he desperately wanted to know the name of her tailor.

He should never have listened to Liselotte; he truly was most shockingly underdressed.

The women weren't the only ones wearing clothes that — however elegant — would have been more than a little unseemly out in the street in broad daylight. At a table a short distance from them, a bearded man sat wearing a profoundly ugly and deeply unflattering green dress that did much to reconcile the Chevalier to his own misguided outfit. Not happy with offending everyone in sight with his sartorial choices, the man could be heard speaking in loud, colourful terms about the new increase of the salt tax, and perhaps if the King was so intent on buggering them all, he should just bend them over a table and be done with it. 

(Philippe stiffened at that. Liselotte bit back a chuckle.) 

Treasonous talk notwithstanding, it was all remarkably tame, for all that it could have landed any of them in jail. Philippe and his immediate circle got away with much because Philippe was who he was, and because the King — whatever his moral views on the matter — knew that the nobility would never support a claim to the throne from someone with his brother's very public inclinations, and that suited him. That show of royal tolerance did not extend past the walls of Versailles, past the insulated life at court. What was permitted to the higher classes — what the higher classes permitted themselves — was not for the likes of the people in this room. 

No one seemed to have told them that, however, and if the Chevalier had been of a sentimental disposition, he might almost have been moved by the open displays of affection of people not given much licence to indulge in them. He wasn't of a sentimental disposition, however, and his sympathy only stretched so far. On a small sofa nearby, an unfashionably red-headed youth was heard reciting shockingly bad poetry to the undiscerning delight of his mesmerised companion, and the Chevalier could not help but reflect that while a man ought not to be killed for whom he chose to bed, verses that poor certainly ought to be a hanging offence. 

A handsome, dark-haired woman, elegantly attired in a gown of red silk that was several degrees more fashionable than anything that could be found in Liselotte's wardrobe, crossed the room to meet them. 

"Welcome," she said. "I'm Mademoiselle Séverin."

* * *

Philippe was not happy. He was very far from happy. He was so unhappy, in fact, that had he been at Versailles, he'd already have made his unhappiness known by — depending on who had incurred his displeasure — storming out (Liselotte), or by showing up in the salons wearing the most gloriously decadent gown he owned (Louis), or by drowning his sorrows in half the handsome young men at court (the Chevalier). Things being as they were, he could do none of those things, and wouldn't have if he could. He was a changed man, after all. Reasonable. Mature. And besides, he'd never been one to throw a childish fit because the people he loved were paying attention to someone else. Truly.

God in heaven, when had he become so unbearably needy?

Mademoiselle Séverin, the proprietress of that unusual establishment, had very graciously welcomed Monsieur Harcourt and Monsieur and Madame Clermont — their carefully crafted identities — to her little salon. She'd made introductions, had drinks brought over, been nothing but pleasant and polite and obliging, and Philippe wished her to go to the devil and stay there.

She'd whisked Liselotte away to be introduced to a boisterous group of ladies, confiding in a conspiratorial tone that more than a few of them were _very eager_ to make Madame Clermont's acquaintance — a damn impertinent thing to say to any woman right under her husband's nose, never mind the circumstances. Not happy with that little piece of business, she'd spent every minute since flirting with the Chevalier — _his_ Chevalier — in the most brazen, shameless way. It would have been bad enough anywhere else, but in a house meant to facilitate the encounters of men and women with a tendresse for their own sex, it felt particularly galling. 

"Really, Monsieur Harcourt, you do say the most outrageous things." Séverin's cheeks dimpled when she smiled, and she was smiling now, her tone all amusement. "I don't believe you can be quite respectable."

"I tried respectable once," the Chevalier said, who'd never entertained a respectable thought in his life. "I found it didn't quite suit me."

Mademoiselle Séverin laughed. "I can well believe that."

Before Philippe could share his opinion on women who smiled to excess and the men who humoured them, his attention was drawn away from Mademoiselle Séverin's forward ways and irritating dimples by the man on his other side.

"What say you, Clermont? Is it to be war?" Pierre Roux was a dark, handsome man of about thirty years who claimed to be a spices trader, but whose cool, penetrating gaze put Philippe strongly in mind of Fabien Marchal. 

"I couldn't say." 

Louis was certainly spoiling for one, but when was he not? 

On the chair next to his, the Chevalier laughed at something Mademoiselle Séverin said, and Philippe threw back the rest of his drink — a vile concoction that would never have crossed the threshold of any of his residences, let alone have been served for his pleasure. The lowest creature in his employment drank better liquor than this.

"Pray to God there isn't," said Michel Petit, a painted peacock who'd traded the cassock for a more mercantile existence. "War is a terrible waste of human life. Not much good for business, either."

"Nonsense, pup," Monsieur Blanchard said, a possessive hand on the back of Petit's neck. "War can be very good for business." He was the oldest man at the table, a grey-haired fellow with dangerous politics and no eye for colour. Truly, that ghastly green gown was a sin against nature. 

"You just spent the better part of an hour ranting against the salt tax," Roux said. "Why do you suppose the King keeps raising it, if not to fund his armies?"

"That is quite beside the point. War presents opportunity."

"War presents additional costs, additional difficulties and additional bother. It's at best an annoying nuisance, and at worst an expensive one."

"Yes, but just consider it, my love," said young Ansel Duval, leaning against Roux's side, his lips brushing against his cheek and curving up mischievously. "Soldiers." 

Everyone laughed at that, including Roux, who turned his face to meet his companion's lips in a kiss that would've made a courtesan blush.

Duval reminded Philippe of the Chevalier when they'd first met: pretty and young, and dangerous in a way pretty young men so often were when they knew what they wanted and how to get it. Philippe had never stood a chance against the Chevalier's charm when he chose to employ it. Neither, he suspected, did Roux when it came to Duval.

"From the mouth of babes," Blanchard said. "Care to weigh in, Monsieur Harcourt?" he added, interrupting the Chevalier and Mademoiselle Séverin's little tête-à-tête. "You trade in silks, I believe you said? What's your take on this war business?"

The Chevalier's gaze drifted to Philippe, his smile growing a little wider, a little fonder. "That I too am partial to a handsome man in uniform," he said holding Philippe's gaze, and Philippe made himself smile back despite the knot in his throat.

His smile must've looked as unconvincing as it felt, for the Chevalier's expression turned inquisitive, his hand on the back of Philippe's chair moving to lie flat against his back. Philippe looked away, shaking his head slightly. He was fine. Louis would never let him near a battlefield again, and he couldn't close his eyes without seeing the bleeding, broken bodies of many a handsome man in uniform, and he was apparently enough of a fool to feel threatened by a pretty face with dimples, and a woman no less. But he was fine. 

Somewhere across the room, Liselotte laughed, a loud, delighted, familiar sound that was a timely reminder that they were all supposed to be enjoying themselves and that he was being ridiculous. 

Knowing that he was did not help.

"Gentlemen," Mademoiselle Séverin said warningly at Roux and Duval, who had still to come up for air. Duval's hand had disappeared under the table, and given Roux's flushed appearance, Philippe had no trouble imagining its whereabouts. Mademoiselle Séverin was apparently equally blessed with a vivid imagination. "Not in here. Ansel."

Duval pulled back slightly and grinned when Roux made to follow the movement. "And me thinking you enjoyed a good show, Marie," he said, his attention still on Roux, who looked like a man bewitched. 

"And so I do. But you know the rules."

Duval made to argue, but Roux was already standing up. "Come," he said, and Duval followed, throwing a last shameless grin at their hostess. They disappeared through a door at the end of the room opposite the entrance. It led, Philippe had learnt, to Le Labyrinthe, a maze of corridors, passages and rooms that made up the bulk of Mademoiselle Séverin's little empire, and which accounted for the popularity of her establishment far more than her conventional little salon could. While out here her customers had to abide by the rules of politeness, propriety and decorum that their hostess insisted on, the only rule in Le Labyrinthe was that one's partner (or partners) ought to be willing. And there was no shortage of willing partners. Roux and Ducal hadn't been the first ones to abandon the dignified exchanges of the salon for the dark delights of what lay beyond, and many new arrivals had walked straight through without stopping to make polite conversation.

Were it that Philippe had done the same. 

Monsieur Blanchard leaned towards Michel Petit and whispered something that made the other man blush, his lips curving up in a shy, pleased smile. It made Philippe's heart ache. 

Two women, one of them wearing a richly embroidered coat of blue and silver, took Roux and Duval's seats, greeting Blanchard and Séverin with all the familiarity of old friends. The Chevalier leaned forward on his seat, pulling his hand away from Philippe's back and expressing his utmost desire to be introduced to the owner of such an extraordinary coat. 

Philippe rolled his eyes and pushed back his chair.

"Well, this is a rightly dull affair," he said, standing up. "Do excuse me."

He stalked off towards the entrance to Le Labyrinthe without waiting for an answer. If he were lucky, maybe a minotaur would put him out of his misery. And if not, getting his cock sucked by a handsome stranger in some dark corner had never failed to cheer him up. He wished the Chevalier joy of his new friends. 

Liselotte made to get up when he marched past her, but he motioned for her to stay put. She'd just be sensible at him until he realised he was being foolish, and that didn't suit him in the slightest. He was well aware he was being foolish, and he had no wish to be pacified. 

After the bright lights of the salon, the corridor beyond it seemed almost entirely cast in darkness, with but a couple of candles to light the way. Philippe was halfway down the corridor when he heard the Chevalier's voice behind him.

"Clermont," he called, followed by "Philippe," when Philippe didn't stop. 

He did stop then, turning on his heels. "What?"

The Chevalier raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture immediately undermined by his next words. "That was a little rude."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Philippe said, his voice loud and getting louder. "Do my manners not live up to the tawdry excuse for an assignation house where we find ourselves? Because they've suited well enough in far more august a company, let me tell you."

"Keep your voice down."

Philippe had been spoiling for a fight for the past hour, and it was almost a relief to give in to it. 

"Do not presume to tell me what to do, _Chevalier_ ," he said with all the arrogance of one who'd been born two steps away from the French throne. "I will speak in whatever tone I see fit, and if anyone has a problem with it, they can go to the devil. You didn't even want to come," he added with the petulant indignation of a child. "We practically had to drag you here. For someone who spent all of yesterday whining about having to mingle with the rabble, you've certainly changed your tune."

"Should I have sulked and been an unpleasant, disagreeable bore from the moment we've stepped through the door? Because it seemed to me that role was taken."

It stung all the more for being true.

"Well," Philippe said with all the dignity he could muster, "far be it from me to spoil your fun. Go back to the table. I'm sure Mademoiselle Séverin is eagerly awaiting your return."

"Oh, for— You cannot possibly be jealous. Have you taken leave of your senses?"

Probably. Recent evidence certainly seemed to suggest it. 

"Just go back, will you? I'm in no mood for company." Not the Chevalier's, not even his own. But there was reportedly enough sport to be found in Le Labyrinthe to take his mind off anything he chose, and he certainly meant to try.

Philippe turned to make good on his escape, but the Chevalier grabbed his wrist. Before either of them could say anything, three dishevelled youths — the poet from earlier, his friend, and a short, slight fellow with cropped, spiky hair — stumbled past them, loud and merry and drunk. The poet whispered something to his companions that led one of them to make a loud, pointed comment about cuffs and straps, and the sort of men who might make good use of them, prompting the third youth to volunteer in a mock helpful tone that if the gentlemen were so inclined, they'd be happy to point them in the direction of where such things might be found. 

"Do get lost," was the Chevalier's less than congenial response. He dragged Philippe away from the amused trio and towards a narrow alcove by a window, where heavy curtains hid them from view of the corridor. "Now, will you please, for the love of God, talk to me?"

"Let go," Philippe said. There wasn't enough space for him to wrench his hand away, but he tried to anyway. The Chevalier was having none of it. His fingers tightened around Philippe's wrist.

"Philippe."

Between the curtains and the shuttered window, there was just enough light to make out the Chevalier's silhouette, but Philippe still looked away, unable to stand his scrutiny. He thought they were past this. He thought _he_ was past this. They'd spent months — years! — bickering and fighting and throwing the full weight of their temper at each other like children, not once stopping to think that no bond was so strong it could not break. They'd been arrogant, and what's more, they'd been careless, he'd been careless, and he was still doing it. God in heaven, he'd seen where it led and he was still doing it. 

"Do you miss her?" Philippe asked, and that wasn't at all what he'd meant to say.

"Who?" the Chevalier asked peevishly, impatiently, exasperatedly. 

"The Duchesse d'Angers."

In the silence that followed, voices could be heard in the distance: a small yelp followed by a roar of laughter, followed by a stifled moan, followed by the sound of receding steps.

"Delphine," the Chevalier said at last. "Is that what this is about?"

He eased his grip on Philippe's wrist and would've let go entirely, but Philippe turned his hand and grabbed the Chevalier's sleeve, clinging despite himself, gripped by a sudden, suffocating, superstitious fear of letting go, of being let go, of what it meant. 

The Chevalier stepped closer, his body warm and solid against him. He lifted his free hand, fingers tracing the edge of Philippe's jaw, soft and steady. 

"Honestly, my dear," he said, bringing their foreheads together, his breath warm on Philippe's skin, "what a foolish thing to let fester."

Philippe closed his eyes for a moment, grateful for the proximity, grateful for the darkness. 

"You were in love with her," he said, keeping to himself all the words that echoed off those. Words like, _Were you truly? Are you still? Would you have gone with her if you could?_

"I was, and what of it?" The Chevalier curled his fingers around the back of his neck, an anchoring weight. "I love you." He said it as if it were self-evident, as if it were a mere statement of fact. "I've always loved you. I expect I always will. You're the love of my life, Mignonette, and if you don't know that by now, you're the only one who doesn't. You think I've remained unmarried this long out of a firm determination not to share my jewelry?" Philippe couldn't help mirroring the smile in the Chevalier's voice with a small one of his own. "If I can't have you," the Chevalier added more soberly, he who would never wear a duke's coronet, who would never have the security of Philippe's name and rank like Liselotte did, like Henriette had, "If I can't have you, I don't want anyone else."

Philippe couldn't have spoken just then for a kingdom, so he didn't try, but tilted his face up, his lips finding the Chevalier's in the darkness in a fierce, frantic, desperate kiss that carried with it a world of things he had no words for, and the Chevalier kissed him back with matching urgency, fingers digging painfully into Philippe's hip and the back of his neck, as if he meant to leave his mark on him, as if he meant to mark him as his own. 

"You have me," Philippe said in a breathless whisper. It was truer than any vow he'd ever made before a priest. "I'm yours. For as long as I live—"

The Chevalier pushed him back, pinning him against the wall, his lips on Philippe's once more, hot and demanding and achingly familiar, and the truth of Philippe's unfinished words shone brightly between them.


	3. Le Labyrinthe

Liselotte wrote a great many letters to a great many people. It's what women of her station did when sent to live among strangers in faraway lands. It's also what women of her station did when they wished to hide from their tiresome sisters-in-law in the peaceful solitude of their own chambers. (Her Aunt Sophia, the Electress of Hanover, had remarked on how much more frequently Liselotte wrote these days, and was it not perhaps a trifle odd to suddenly feel homesick after so many years of living abroad?)

In order to provide material for her frequent missives, Liselotte made a point of committing to memory all the funny, interesting or newsworthy things that happened to her, or near her, or to anyone she knew (there being, as Lorraine so often informed her, such a deliciously fine line between news and gossip). 

It turned out that this evening was the most interesting thing to have happened to her in ages, and how maddening not to be able to put any of it into a letter, but what could she possibly say?

_My dearest Louise, I've accompanied Monsieur and the Chevalier de Lorraine to the most delightful house of ill repute (or rather, not a house of ill repute precisely, except that all manner of shocking and unmentionable things happen in it). Everyone was very pleasant and very free with their comments, as well as with their hands and other parts of their anatomy. I made the acquaintance of many interesting persons, including one Mademoiselle de Brie, who makes her living on the stage and has worked with the great Molière. She entertained us all with her stories, paid me some very pretty compliments, and was overall very attentive, always making sure I had everything I needed and that my glass was always full. I liked her exceedingly._

Frau von Harling had spent many a long hour trying to impart on young Liselotte that there was such a thing as being too forthcoming, and on this occasion at least, Liselotte was tempted to agree. Or at least, she thought she was. She wasn't entirely sure. She wasn't entirely sure of much of anything anymore, and she half suspected her constantly refilled cup might be to blame. 

Liselotte had never been one to drink more than was good for her, and she'd seldom had anything but mockery to offer Philippe and the Chevalier on those occasions when a queasy stomach or a splitting headache had given them cause to regret decisions made the night before, but what was the point of life if one couldn't be a hypocrite every now and then? 

And besides, Mademoiselle de Brie was determined to charm her, and Liselotte was very willing to be charmed. The Princess Palatine had few pretensions to beauty and none to fashion, and while she'd never felt the lack of either or of the praise that often accompanied them, she was not so immune to flattery that she didn't relish the attentions of such a woman. Catherine Leclerc du Rose, the famous Mademoiselle de Brie, was witty and worldly, and she looked at Liselotte as though she were a rare, exotic thing she simply must own. Had Liselotte been a little younger or a lot greener, she suspected she would have been halfway in love with the alluring actress within half an hour of knowing her. Liselotte was neither that young nor that green, of course — Versailles was certainly an education — and she had given her heart away well before this night, but she still enjoyed herself immensely, laughing and drinking and flirting with Mademoiselle de Brie, with Mademoiselle Séverin, with all of their interesting, funny, charming friends. 

It wasn't until she stood up and the room swayed around her that Liselotte had cause to regret any of it, and even then not much, not beyond thinking it would certainly be very undignified if she were to be sick or fall flat on her face. (Though at least Philippe and the Chevalier were not there to see it, and wasn't that lucky? After all her teasing on that very subject, neither of them would ever have let her live that down.)

"Are you quite all right, sweet one?" Mademoiselle de Brie asked, squeezing Liselotte's hand. 

"Oh, yes," Liselotte said, the world starting to blur around the edges. "I just stood up too quickly, is all. My, that's some very strong wine, is it not?"

"Nothing but the best for my friends," Mademoiselle Séverin said with a knowing smile. "Shall I fetch Monsieur Clermont, my dear?"

It took Liselotte a moment to remember who this Monsieur Clermont was, and she was almost certain she had referred to Lorraine as "the Chevalier" at some point during the evening, which she really ought not to have done, but she couldn't remember for sure, and there was nothing to be done about it if she had, so she put it out of her mind.

"No, no," she said, willing the room to stand still. "He and Lo— Monsieur Harcourt can't be too far off, and I dare say a little movement will do me a world of good."

So long as she managed to remain upright, at any rate, which at the moment seemed very far from certain. Still, if Liselotte could navigate the nest of vipers that was Versailles, she could surely manage to make her way from one end of the room to the other without disgracing herself. Probably.

She declined Mademoiselle de Brie's offer of assistance. Adventures were all very well, but currently the world was spinning rather wildly on its axis, and Liselotte longed for solid ground. The Princess Palatine carefully crossed the room towards the door through which the Chevalier and Philippe had disappeared some time before. Philippe had gone off in a huff, which wasn't exactly a first, and the Chevalier had stalked off after him, which was only to be expected. Any number of loud, melodramatic things were likely to have followed, but the house was still standing and no commotion had reached the salon, so they'd probably solved whatever it was that needed solving. One hoped. 

Truly, she loved them both, but they were silly, absurd creatures that were too fond of making a fuss at the slightest provocation. 

Past the door lay a dark corridor that led to another dark corridor, that led to an intersection from which other dark corridors departed, and were candles such an expensive luxury this far from the Palais-Royal that one had to be so economical about them? Liselotte turned right, and she turned left, and all too soon she'd turned herself around enough times that she no longer knew where she was or where she'd come from or where in God's name she was supposed to go. Laughter echoed all around her, and chatter and the sort of sounds one might expect from a place where "shocking and unmentionable things" went on, but the corridors and hallways were deserted, and all Liselotte could see in the dim light were more corridors, more hallways, more paths that led nowhere.

When she was a girl in Hanover, she'd once got lost in a maze while playing hide and seek with her cousins. It hadn't been a very big maze, and she'd been within shouting distance of any number of people the entire time, but for a moment it had seemed to young Liselotte as though the whole world was gone and only she remained, as though everyone and everything had disappeared but her, and the tall green hedges around her, and the vast blue sky above. 

Liselotte was no longer a girl, and she'd never been particularly fanciful even then, but she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that maybe this time she'd truly done it — stepped outside the world into a place where only she existed and everyone else was gone, and what if she could never find her way back? Years from now, historians and courtiers would tell stories of the second Madame, and how she'd gone missing one night, never to be seen again. Not quite as dramatic as the death of the first Madame, perhaps, but infinitely more mysterious. Not that she felt the need to compete with a dead woman, of course. 

In truth, Liselotte rather pitied her, the beautiful, graceful, accomplished Henriette, who'd handled being second best so poorly and who'd died so terribly. Henriette had felt slighted by Philippe and threatened by Lorraine, and in her pain and loneliness had offered her heart to a man who was not exactly known for the constancy of his affections. Liselotte adored Louis — truly, she did — but steadfastness was not one of his virtues. 

It was one of Philippe's, though, and Liselotte loved him for it. He'd loved the Chevalier for some thirty-odd years, and to Liselotte, who'd grown up in the ruins of her parents' marriage, that was something admirable and praiseworthy and precious and rare. 

Even if she could strangle him and the Chevalier both on many an occasion.

She came to another intersection. Dark deserted corridor to the left, dark deserted corridor to the right, dark deserted corridor right in front of her. Well, this was certainly very silly. Touching her hand to the wall, Liselotte turned left. 

Perhaps this was how ghosts came to be: people who lost their way in impossibly (and rather implausibly) large houses with corridors that turned on themselves until it was quite impossible for one to find one's way out. Liselotte wasn't sure how she felt about being a ghost. On the one hand, she could haunt Madame de Maintenon, and if anyone deserved a good haunting, she did. On the other hand, where would the fun be in haunting someone who spent most of her time on her knees? (And not, Lorraine's voice supplied in some impish, wicked corner of her brain, in an entertaining way.)

Liselotte had just turned another corner when a hand came out of nowhere, grabbing her arm. She spun around, ready to do battle with whatever demon of hell had come to claim her for this haunted place, and came face to face with her husband.

"Oh, thank God," she said, lightheaded with relief. "I don't think turning into a ghost would've suited me in the slightest."

Philippe chuckled, pulling her to him and wrapping his arms around her. "What on earth are you going on about?"

"I couldn't explain it if I tried," she said, her voice muffled against his chest. She turned her face to look up at him. "What are you doing out here?"

"Looking for you. What are _you_ doing out here?"

"Looking for you." And wasn't it lucky that they'd found each other? "Where is the Chevalier?"

"Losing our money at cards," he said. "Would you care to go and watch?"

She would. Philippe led her through that absurd maze without letting go of her hand, choosing his path without hesitation until they reached a door that all but disappeared into the wall in the half light of the hallway. He opened it to reveal a moderately sized room, sparsely furnished and full of people in different states of undress, which was the least alarming thing one could say about them.

Couples busied themselves around the place, draped over sofas or chairs or each other, like something out of a painting or a dream — though whose she could not say. A large fireplace took up most of the wall, casting wavering light and flickering shadows over the floor and walls and moving bodies. 

On an armchair by the fire sat one of Mademoiselle Séverin's friends, a shrewd, sharp fellow who'd reminded Liselotte of Marchal — the same severe countenance, the same piercing, dark eyes, the air of someone who was at least a little dangerous and at worst very much so. He didn't look dangerous now, dressed down to his shirtsleeves, face flushed and tilted back, lips slightly parted as he gripped the hair of the young man kneeling between his legs, who was doing things with his mouth that made Liselotte blush furiously and look away, embarrassed. 

That proved ill-advised. Anywhere she turned, she saw men and women on their knees, on their backs, bent over tables, gasping and moaning as they pleasured themselves or each other or several others, their skin flushed and their eyes dark with need, their faces contorted in expressions of pleasure, ecstasy, bliss. 

Liselotte had by now lived in France for well over ten years, and spent most of that time at a court where, despite the Queen's and Madame de Maintenon's best efforts, sinning remained the chief pastime of an idle, bored nobility. It was disconcerting to learn that there were still things that could make her feel like the innocent, naïve nineteen-year-old who'd arrived at Versailles to find that the French were somewhat more flexible in their morals than she was used to. More flexible in other ways too, going by some of the scenes around her.

"You're still certain you wouldn't rather go back to the salon?" Philippe asked in the highly amused tone of one who'd given her ample warning of what to expect only to have his concern disregarded with no more than a snort and a dismissive wave of her hand. 

"There really isn't a shy one in the house, is there?" Liselotte said by way of reply, unable to look away from where two blond men who shared more than a passing resemblance had unceremoniously pushed a third man down on his back over a table and were now making use of him — of his mouth, of his ass — as if he himself were of no consequence, exchanging comments and jests while rocking into him.

Philippe simply chuckled, kissing her temple before tugging on her hand for her to follow as he crossed the room, past the three men, past so many others — men and women, and persons not so easily defined. Moans and whispers trailed after them, and breathless laughter. Liselotte was hard pressed not to stare, though under the circumstances, one might be forgiven for supposing that an audience was very much the point.

The Chevalier was in the far corner of the room, sitting at a table opposite a short, burly fellow who boasted a shaved head and the rough looks of someone not entirely unfamiliar with the inside of a jail cell. Like the Chevalier, he'd discarded his coat and wore only his waistcoat over his shirt, the buttons undone and his cravat long gone. 

"Out of your depth yet, my dear?" the Chevalier asked her with a wicked smile, looking up from his cards.

Liselotte snorted and took the chair Philippe offered, next to the Chevalier's. "Not at all," she said, trying and failing to remember what the Chevalier's assumed name was supposed to be. It was probably best that she didn't call anyone anything for the rest of the night; she truly couldn't keep any of it straight inside her head anymore.

Philippe went in search of a chair for himself, and Liselotte hooked her arm with the Chevalier's, leaning her head against his shoulder and looking at the cards he was holding. His shady-looking opponent held out a warning finger at her.

"No helping him, madame."

"Yes, _Madame_ ," the Chevalier said pointedly. "No helping."

That "Madame" struck Liselotte as so incredibly, hilariously, absurdly funny that she burst into raucous laughter, and once she started, she found she couldn't stop. 

"Are you quite all right?" the Chevalier asked, a smile in his voice, and all she could do was nod and turn her face against his arm, trying and failing to regain some semblance of decorum. Madame, indeed. 

"You are a delight when you drink," Philippe said, leaning down over her and kissing the top of her head.

It was several seconds before she managed to say, "I resent the implication that I'm not a delight all the time."

* * *

Card games were popular at court, and during his time as a courtier, the Chevalier had won and lost entire fortunes at lansquenet and ombre and bassette and reversi, accepting both his good and bad luck with all the equanimity of one who only gambled with other people's money. 

There wasn't much of a fortune for him to gamble away this time. They had but a modest sum between them, and Gaston Boucher — the blunt, surly fellow sitting across from him — was less inclined to accept credit from unknown Philippe Harcourt, the purported silk trader, than his usual opponents were to accept credit from the Chevalier de Lorraine, Monsieur's favourite. Still, one did not play rustics to make a profit. One played rustics for the fun of it.

"My dear sir, at this rate you will leave me quite destitute," he said, throwing his remaining cards on the table. "I'm afraid you've all but emptied my purse."

"Your luck seems to be curiously bad tonight," Liselotte said sympathetically — or what a stranger might read as sympathetic but that the Chevalier knew contained nothing but sarcasm. The Princess Palatine was a pleasant weight against his side, and she'd had a clear enough view of his cards for the past hour to know his luck had been excellent. 

He ignored her, asking Boucher, "Another round? You must give me a chance to win back my losses."

"With what? The shirt off your back? Seems to me you've nothing left to play with, monsieur."

Well, that was simply not true.

The Chevalier smiled and looked at Philippe, who was sitting on his other side, his feet on his lap. "Not the shirt off my back, no," he said, and Philippe quirked an eyebrow. He turned his attention back to Monsieur Boucher, pushing Philippe's feet off his lap and sitting up straighter. "With the shirt off his." He helped himself to a few coins from Boucher's pile. "This much against my friend's coat."

Boucher eyed Philippe appraisingly, a mercantile interest in what was on offer. The coat was just a coat, and a sorry excuse for one at that — worn and shabby and drab — but those weren't the stakes, and Boucher did not pretend to misunderstand. He met Philippe's gaze but briefly, his attention immediately drifting to the curve of his neck, the breadth of his shoulders, the expanse of his chest, down and down, looking his fill. 

"Very well," he said. The Chevalier had already reached for the deck.

Lorraine lost that hand, and the one after that, and the one after that, and with it Philippe's coat, and Philippe's waistcoat, and Philippe's shirt. Philippe himself made no objection to any of it, but did as he was bid. A flush of embarrassment spread all the way down to his chest when the shirt finally came off, but the bulge in his breeches made clear his opinion on being disposed of in such a manner. 

Boucher's expression was a hungry, greedy thing at the sight, and the Chevalier knew he could have named his price then and there without having to depend on a good hand or a struck of luck to win back his money. But the fun wasn't in the winning, the fun was in the playing, and he _was_ having fun. 

So was Liselotte, if the look on her face and the way she was clutching his arm were anything to go by.

"He's a pretty little thing, isn't he?" he asked her in a stage whisper that caused Philippe to look away, a pleased, surprisingly shy smile on his lips. He _was_ pretty, in a delicate, almost feminine sort of way that stood in stark contrast to his broad shoulders, and defined muscles, and scars left by scuffles and accidents and two terrible, bloody wars. Philippe had a courtier's face and a soldier's body, and his smile would've had the Chevalier on his knees from their first meeting, even had he not been the wealthy, powerful brother of the King of France. "Would you care to raise the stakes, Boucher? Half of that," he said, pointing at the bank, "against a kiss."

The bank held all the money Boucher had won against the Chevalier, and all the money he'd won against the string of rather unlucky fellows who'd preceded him. It was a tidy sum, at least two hundred francs or more, by the Chevalier's estimate. Not a large sum for a prince, of course, but he imaged it to be a considerable one for someone who had to work for it. Boucher's snort of derision confirmed his suspicion.

"Half of that? For a kiss? You must take me for a fool, monsieur."

"You don't care for that wager? Try this one. My friend against all of it. I win, I walk away with all the money in the bank. You win, you get to fuck him."

Liselotte tightened her grip on his arm. On his other side, just at the edge of his vision, Philippe had gone perfectly still.

Boucher stared at the Chevalier for several moments, gaze steady, expression unreadable. "It's a lot of money," he said at last.

"It is," the Chevalier agreed. "He's worth it."

The other man looked at Philippe, eyeing him thoughtfully. "Half of it. You win, you get half what's in the bank. I win, I get to sample the goods. Then we'll see."

"You've got yourself a deal."

For once his cards were genuinely bad, but the Chevalier did not let that worry him. He had not meant to win. 

Contrary to popular belief, the Chevalier did not mind sharing. Not if he could dictate the who and the how and the when. To own someone that completely — to own Philippe that completely — there was nothing quite like it. And besides, he liked to watch. Given the right circumstances, he very much liked to watch.

Liselotte did not ease the iron grip on his arm — come morning, he'd have bruises where her fingers were digging into his skin — but she did not comment and she did not object. She was supposed to be the sensible one. He and Philippe really had proved a terrible influence on her. Now, if only they could extend that influence to her wardrobe.

"Truly, the way you keep winning, it's enough to make any man suspicious," he said when the game drew to its inevitable conclusion.

"Are you accusing me of something?" Boucher asked with the injured look of one who'd have had not the least scruples in cheating, only it had been quite unnecessary so far. 

The Chevalier smiled, holding out his palms. "Not at all. You must allow me some disappointment, is all. Philippe," he added without looking away from Boucher, "give him his winnings."

Philippe did not move for a full second and then rose to his feet, pressing his fingers briefly to the back of the Chevalier's head before moving towards Boucher. The man pushed away from the table and Philippe stepped into the space between his legs and leaned down, his hair falling forward and hiding the moment their lips met. Boucher immediately reached for him, placing a hand on his hip and burying the fingers of the other in his hair, the better to pull him down to his lap. The suddenness of the movement startled Philippe, who made to move back, but Boucher tightened his grip on him, holding him still. 

"None of that, sweetheart," he said, dropping his gaze to Philippe's lips. "You behave now and I'll take good care of you." He kissed him again, a filthy, open-mouthed kiss that went straight to Lorraine's groin. The Chevalier watched with growing interest as this unrefined, brute of a man ran a large, calloused hand down his lover's back, fingers digging into skin and muscle. Boucher brought his hand around to the front, moving it over Philippe's chest, and Philippe moaned against his mouth when he pressed a thumb to his left nipple, rubbing teasing little circles over it.

The Chevalier glanced at Liselotte, who sat staring transfixed at the scene in front of them. 

"You're very quiet," he said, his smug amusement undermined by how hoarse his voice sounded to his own ears. Across from them, Boucher pinched Philippe's nipple and Philippe whimpered, a soft, confused sound that quickly turned into a choked moan when Boucher did it again.

"You are a wicked, wicked man, Chevalier," she said without looking away from the utterly debauched figure Philippe cut on Boucher's lap. It sounded like a compliment. Lorraine was fairly certain she meant it as one.

Boucher's wandering hand trailed downwards, and Philippe grabbed his wrist before it could reach its clearly intended destination.

"What did I say about behaving, princess?" Boucher asked, low and intimate, and then leaned in, nibbling Philippe's neck. Philippe tilted his face to allow him better access, his expression feverish and dazed, his eyes glazed over. He met the Chevalier's eye and let go of Boucher's hand, sucking in a breath at the same time as Liselotte when Boucher covered his straining cock with his hand, rubbing it over the fabric of his breeches. 

"Philippe," his Philippe said in a breathless whisper, still looking straight at him, part moan, part plea. He was the only one who ever called him by his Christian name, an infrequent, rare treat saved for special occasions, and never in company. It was a testament to how out of it Philippe was that he used it now.

"Boucher," the Chevalier said, and had to clear his throat before adding, "That's enough." He threw a coin at the man's head to get his attention. "I dare say that more than satisfies the terms of the wager."

"I reckon it does," Boucher said, his attention still on Philippe, his hand gone still on Philippe's lap. "You've made your point, Harcourt. The amount we've just played for, let me have him and it's yours."

"I don't want half, I want it all."

Boucher looked at him then, eyes narrowed. "Only a fool would pay that much for a fuck."

"We'll play for it. If I win, I'm a wealthy man." Liselotte snorted. The Chevalier ignored her. "If you win, you keep the money and you get him for the night, to use however you please, for as long as you please. Until morning, at any rate."

Boucher considered it for several moments, and the Chevalier could almost see him weighing his unwillingness to risk so large a sum against what he thought his odds were of beating unlucky, unskilled Monsieur Harcourt, who had yet to learn when to cut his losses. 

The Chevalier had worked hard to give Boucher an inflated sense of his own cleverness, but a smarter man wouldn't have taken the bait, however tempting. Whores were a dime a dozen in Paris, and Boucher didn't even have to leave the room to find any number of men willing and eager to suck his cock or let him bend them over a table without charging him for it. He had his sights set high, though, and Philippe _was_ a tempting prospect. Perhaps more to the point, most of Boucher's blood supply was currently engaged in a somewhat southern location, leaving his brain to follow its baser instincts quite unencumbered by inconvenient misgivings.

"Let's play," he said at last, as the Chevalier knew he would.

"Don't lose more than you intend to, Lorraine," Liselotte said under her breath as he shuffled the cards.

"I won't." 

He never did. The Chevalier was a very accomplished cheat. Once in a fit of pique he'd lost a third of Philippe's annual income to a string of men with no skill and less luck, and that had taken some doing. He'd still managed it quite credibly, despite barely being able to see the cards, he was so drunk. 

He'd won and lost entire fortunes playing against dukes and princes and kings, and even a cardinal, once. He chewed arrogant, overeager, over-reaching upstarts like Boucher for breakfast. 

The man kept Philippe on his lap, and more fool he, for that was a distraction he could've done without. The Chevalier played fast and he played smart, with a quick mind and quicker fingers. Luck was for amateurs. The Chevalier de Lorraine made his own. 

Boucher tried hard to cling to his winnings, realising far too late that the foppish Monsieur Harcourt wasn't quite the green, reckless lightweight he seemed, but it was a realisation arrived at too late to be of use. When he lost, it came as no surprise to anyone at the table, not even him. 

"Well, I'll be damned," he said, his expression breaking into an unexpected, slightly chagrined smile. "Teaches me not to be taken in for a fool over a pretty face. That was some beautifully underhanded playing, monsieur."

"Are you accusing me of something?" the Chevalier asked sardonically, echoing Boucher's previous words.

The man laughed, open and easy, a surprising reaction for someone who'd looked so saturnine in victory. "Oh, I'm sure you were cheating ten different ways, though I'll be damned if I know how you did it. A pleasure to watch, though, for all that you've plucked me clean. And you, my pretty," he added to Philippe, cupping his face, "I'd say I regret losing that fine ass of yours more than the silver, but I'd be lying. Damn near thing, though." 

Philippe chuckled and leaned forward, pressing a brief kiss to Boucher's lips. "Better luck next time, monsieur."

"Fool enough to let it happen once; I'd be a right dunce to let it happen twice. Though for a pair of eyes like yours, any man could be forgiven for being tempted."

Philippe actually blushed at that and Liselotte giggled.

"That's right enough of that, Boucher," the Chevalier said, less amused by Boucher's unexpected and rather misplaced gallantry than the other two. "Hand him over."

"Aye, aye, don't get your knickers in a twist, Harcourt."

He let go of Philippe who stood up and walked around the table, almost knocking the Chevalier's chair back when he straddled his lap, his lips immediately on Lorraine's, hard and eager and familiar.

"You're a maniac," Philippe said between kisses. "Reckless, rash, arrogant—"

The Chevalier shut him up with another kiss, holding him tighter against him, running his hands down the curve of his back and over his buttocks, wishing to banish all memory of Boucher's touch from Philippe's mind. Philippe was his, and his alone. 

Philippe rolled his hips meaningfully on his lap, and the Chevalier moaned against his mouth, but before he could do anything about it, Philippe pulled back and shifted his weight, reaching for Liselotte.

"And you," he said accusingly, wrapping his fingers around the back of her neck and pulling her to him. "You're supposed to be the sane one."

She laughed and kissed him, bracing a hand on his chest, the other still on the Chevalier's shoulder. Liselotte would never be a looker, but just then the sight of her kissing Philippe, flushed and breathless, her braid beginning to come undone, was one of the most beautiful things the Chevalier had even seen.

Theirs. Philippe was theirs, and in that moment the Chevalier truly did not mind sharing. Not with her. Not ever.

"Boucher," he said, looking around Philippe. "Find me a private room and you can keep the silver."

* * *

A crashing sound startled him awake, and for a moment Philippe did not know where he was or what time it was. His eyes flew open to find three young women staring at him with different degrees of shock and surprise. The youngest one, a petite, blonde girl that looked to be sixteen if she was a day, had dropped a water pitcher on the floor and turned an alarmingly deep shade of red. 

"Who the devil is throwing china around?" the Chevalier asked behind him in a plaintive tone, burrowing deeper against his back. It was then that Philippe realised they weren't in his room. The three of them had returned to the Palais-Royal in the early hours, and Liselotte's room was the closest. He and the Chevalier were supposed to have retired to his room well before anyone else was up. 

"We're very sorry, Your Royal Highness," the older of the three said, one Madame of something or other that had come with Liselotte from Germany and married— married someone. A captain or a minor nobleman or some other sort of male someone. Philippe was fairly sure. "We came to help Madame get dressed."

Liselotte emerged from under the sheets, a faint blush on her cheeks and her hair a wild, untamed thing all around her face. "My, is that the time? Perhaps—"

"We could maybe come back later." That was the third one, the only one Philippe truly recognised. She was Madame de Montespan's cousin or niece or what have you. They did not look alike, particularly, except for the subtly amused smirk currently on her lips. That was very much like Athénaïs, and Philippe could only imagine the interesting gossip young Marguerite de Brézé would send her relation regarding the Duchesse d'Orléans' bedroom exploits with her husband and his lover.

"Pray do, or at least stop prattling," the Chevalier said, ill-humoured. "Some of us are trying to sleep."

The three curtsied and withdrew, Blond Girl looking flustered, Mademoiselle de Brézé looking thoroughly entertained, and Older Woman looking very German and unflappable.

Liselotte pulled the sheet over her head. "This is a disaster," she said, her voice muffled.

"There, there," the Chevalier said, reaching over Philippe to pat her head. "It could be worse. At least we're in Paris. The gossip mill at Versailles won't hear about it until lunch time at the earliest."

Liselotte's groan was some indication that she did not find that particularly reassuring. Philippe lifted the sheet to catch her eye.

"If the point was to scandalise Madame de Maintenon, this ought to do it."

She managed to resist the smile tugging at her lips for all of half a second before bursting into peals of laughter, a loud, genuine, happy sound that Philippe couldn't but echo. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer, and Liselotte curled up against him. 

"Oh God," she said, her voice full of mirth, "just imagine what she'd make of it if she knew the whole story."

"That you encouraged the Chevalier to sell my virtue for two hundred francs?"

"I doubt she'd think your virtue worth two hundred francs."

Philippe gasped in mock outrage. "You fiend," he said, and Liselotte shrieked and tried to squirm away when he started to tickle her.

"I adore you both," the Chevalier said, throwing his right arm and leg over them like a very large, very grumpy octopus, "but if you don't shut up, I'm going to smother you with a pillow."

"Goodness, he really isn't a morning person, is he?" Liselotte asked, amused, settling down against Philippe.

"Not even a little," he said, smiling fondly when the Chevalier kissed his neck and shushed him.

There was a big world beyond this bed, and problems to deal with, and Louis to manage, and Madame de Maintenon to put up with, and Versailles — always Versailles — looming above them, with its webs of politics and social niceties and social pitfalls, but Philippe was currently warm and snug between two of the people he loved most in the world, so it was hard to worry too much or for too long. 

It wasn't long before he started to doze off, and not much longer before he was fast asleep. By the time Mademoiselle de Brézé came by an hour later to check whether Madame was now of a mind to get up, none of them was awake enough to notice or care, and she retired once more, to report that perhaps Madame, Monsieur and the Chevalier had overexerted themselves the night before and were best left undisturbed.


End file.
